


Whatever Happened to the Shining Knight?

by vizarding



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Seven Soldiers of Victory
Genre: Bad Ending, M/M, Retcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vizarding/pseuds/vizarding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to the existing characters when there's a retcon? What happened exactly when Grant Morrison opened his word processor to write the script for Seven Soldiers #0? What happened to the Justin and Greg who had existed and grown old in the DC Universe before he decided to change it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Happened to the Shining Knight?

The two men lounged on the couch, the sweet smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen. Justin’s head lay upon Greg’s shoulder, while the cowboy’s old, calloused hand rested on his thigh, thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of his pants. Hilary Swank played across the screen of the TV, a weathered Clint Eastwood giving her support.

Justin glanced to his partner, smile playing on his lips. “I await the day ye admit ye fancy the man.”

Taken by surprise, a frowned creased into the cowboy’s face. “What in the heck you sayin’, Justin.”

“Oh, how vast thou infatuation with Mr. Eastwood must spread, only dwarfed by that of ye, how would one portray it, river in Egypt.” Jesting with his love, he sat up, his smile only growing.

Greg’s displeasure could not last, not at all, grinning back and giving Justin’s thigh a playful squeeze. “Was that a modern reference I dun caught out yer mouth? Maybe y'all been watchin’ TOO much teler-vision.”

“The way thou eyes light up like the stars of the night, how quickly ye rush yonder to hear of his news. Mayhap I need be jealous?”

“May'hap y'all should–”

A mild tremor.

It struck through the house, barely causing anything other than a loud creak from the old wood; but their old bones hardened. They waited a moment, Greg pushing himself up from the couch, gun in hand. He always kept one close, another thing Justin teased him about. Though with Justin keeping his sword beneath their bed, it wasn’t exactly something he could talk about.

Nothing came, Justin speaking first. “Tis another crisis?”

The other turned the movie off, switching on the news. “I dang hope not. Last one was worst fer e'eryone.” The timer went off in the kitchen, Greg hurrying to its call. “Think they’ll need our help?”

The knight sat back, “Ye sound hopeful.”

Greg called from the kitchen as he worked, preparing two plates, “Well, I hung up my own dang boots but I’ll be damn if I don’t miss roundin’ up hard case varmints. Though, what with all them greenhorn meta’s runnin’ around, who needs us two old steeds.”

“And yet thou words ring true. My leg–”

A flash of light ran behind him, out of Greg’s peripheral vision; he didn’t even notice.

He rolled his eyes, tucking two forks under the chicken breasts, and heading back to the living room. “Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t fer serious, Justin. We could show them youngin’s a thin’ or two ‘bout puttin’ away to the hoosegow. You just throw yerself on old Victory an’ y—”

The couch was empty.

That was odd, he didn’t hear any creaks or groans from the old thing, nor the floorboards. And it’s not like Justin was bum on his leg, he could still walk; but… that fast? Greg put down the dinner to the side, tucking it on the crowded dresser full of picture frames. “Dang it,” he muttered, knocking over their photo with Oliver Queen and… what was it, Guy Gardener? He didn’t really care to remember that horse’s ass of a man’s name. He went to the bathroom, knocking on the door. “Jus–” it opened, the inside dark. Empty.

Bedroom was empty.

So was the closet. (He was just checking.)

Guest room was just the same.

Basement… Greg wouldn’t lie to say he rushed there, thinking of said bum leg giving out, and him somehow not hearing the following crash. But there was no broken, old body at the foot of the stairs. There was no body at all in the basement.

Okay, the cowboy’s mind was giving in to worry.

Frantic, he hurried out to the stable. “Danggonnit nitwit that don’t never know when to quit, I’m gonna hogtie the bastard and ain’t never–” He pulled open the doors and stopped. His horses were there, just fine. But Winged Victory’s area was empty.

The put it more specifically, it wasn’t even there.

Just normal horse slots.

The area he built himself, to fit that stuck-up stallion was… what? Like it had never had a horse there in the first place. Gone.

This ain’t right.

* * *

A trip on his motorcycle lead him into town quick. He had no idea what was going on, but maybe he somehow… maybe some magic shit happened, and Justin split quick. Before it could happen.

The night’s cold, dry air stung his face, but he didn’t care.

He went to the bar first.

“Sir Justin!! The man who lives on my ranch!! Harry, y'all tried to out drink him the other night an’ had to be carried home!!” The man in question laughed and fell backwards out of his chair. The rest of them joined in the laughter, even the bar tender.

“Y'all sure you's ain’t the roostered one?”

“Y'ALL are all the roostered ones!! Soaked!! Fuck y'all!” He charged out of the bar, trying the sheriff’s station, who… scowled at him. 

“Here to turn yerself in ‘fore you cause trouble?”

“Turn myself in? Fer what?" 

Asked if he got in another bar fight. Or beat up another local. Or… a long list of things. Things Greg wouldn’t do. He left in a hurry, not liking the look he was getting.

He tried the market. The cashiers all looked so confused. Maybelle especially.

“I ain’t never heard of no Justen in this here parts, Mr. Saunders.”

“Justin! Sir Justin! The Shinin’ Knight! The gentlemen who lives with me!! Since when you were so formal with me Maybelle?“ 

"Since you done hit me with a bottle,” she said quietly.

Eyes wide, he stumbled back. He was beyond frazzled at this point, and the manager had come out and started laughing. "You sleepin’ wit’ 'gentlemen’ now, Greg? That why y'all haven’t called on Ms. Pepper since last month?“

A woman getting her groceries frowned to him, "On another bender I see. He used to be a good man.”

Greg shrunk back. He felt… he was confused, and hurt, and wasn’t getting any answers he wanted. Barely able to find his footing, he stumbled out and jumped on his bike, swerving a little too close for comfort to the horses and startling them; almost got kicked in the face.

* * *

He walked in the door.

His head hurt.

Greg’s eyes blearily looked to the food, cold and forgotten and– …. He walked over, shakily picking up the photo he had knocked over. Previously, it had been him and Justin, the Gardner character making bunny ears on the both of them, Oliver cackling to himself. Now… now it was just him, Ollie shoving Gardner in the stomach as his construct floated, losing its target.

Then the picture of them with the Justice League, gone was Justin from the picture.

Their… their anniversary picture frame was empty.

Wait. The League.

He ran to the kitchen, fumbling and getting out his communicator; he didn’t even notice how there was only one, not two. He wasn’t focused on that. It rang a few times, before J'onn picked up, a dull tone in his voice. “Vigilante, I thought–”

“Y'all, I don’t have time for whatever you’re gonna say, if y'all gonna suddenly tell me I’m not wanted, none of that dang shit! What I… what I need is y'all to tell me this jig is up, that it’s a big joke, ain’t it? Justin’s on record… Sir Justin. Justin Arthur. Shining Knight. Please. Please.” His voice cracked; he leaned his head against the counter as J'onn responded, so quickly, something along the lines of 'We do not have anyone of such name on record, what is the point of your calling.’ in his usual monotone voice.

He broke, tears forming.

His head split, and he dropped the communicator, clutching the sides of it; he dug his nails in as he fell to his knees; the room spun around, lights seeming to flicker. Everything hurt and he just. He just needed to go to sleep. Sleep would bring dreams, and he’d wake up and this all would be one.

That’s all it would be.

He made his way across the living room, a small glance towards the couch. This was ridiculous; Justin had been right there. He'd… he’d been holding him. With his hand. Yeah, this was some sort of joke, things will be alright in the morning.

Completely alright.

* * *

Greg doesn’t remember when he hit the sack last night, but the sun shining through his window burns his eyes. He must have drank too much last night. He really needs to stop that. A groan escapes him as he rolls over, covering his head.

Wait a minute.

“Justin?” He sat up straight, eyes wide. He was quiet, before slumping. “… What am I sayin'… Justin… was there someone last night who owes me a drink'r somethin'…”

Legs were thrown over the side of the bed.

He walked into the living room.

A single plate sat on the dresser, food cold and uneaten; one of the few frames sitting atop was knocked over. Bah, he’d fix it later.

A drawer was ripped out in the kitchen, his communicator sitting on the counter. Yeesh, what DID he do last night? It’s really… vague. He held his head, nursing the splitting migraine as his egg crackled in the frying pan. He dumped it on a piece of toast and found his way to the couch, turning on the tv; it was already on the news. Nothing new seemed to be happening on that day, April 1, 2005. It was gonna be hotter than a whorehouse on a nickel, but that was nothing new.

His hand drifted beside him, groping the couch.

Empty.

Hm.

Something did feel empty, but Greg couldn’t for the dang life of him figure out what. Oh well, he’s sure it’ll go away once the migraine disappears.

* * *

A month later, a certain sir Ystin lands in Los Angeles, baffled by all happenings. He had been betrayed by a changeling; his mighty winged steed shot down, and officers hand-cuffing him.

He speaks in a language no one understands.

* * *

Greg Saunders has been dead for a few weeks.

Eaten by mythical beings from another dimension.

They will never meet.


End file.
